Keep Looking For Me
by Quill Angel
Summary: "I knew you were something dazzling. I knew that from the moment I saw you. I knew that you were tired and lonely and you needed someone absolutely mad to fix you again and I did, I fixed you." This was their dance. This slow, sure, undeniable pull of the Earth towards the sun. And now he was gone, and John still found himself moving towards a body that was no longer there.
1. little beast

**One**

 _So it's summer, so it's suicide,_

 _So we're helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool._

 ** _OoO_**

People said it would get easier.

People were wrong.

The fact was that he revolved around him, like the earth around the sun, and now he was gone; and yet he found himself swaying, gravitating towards a body that was no longer there.

When John closes his eyes he can see crimson seeping through his face. He can see his coat sodden with it, he can see his shirt red when it should be white and eyes that are grey, lifeless, dull, dead—

The human body is so fragile, in the end. Even Sherlock, who was always invincible. Who, to John, seemed to be made of steel and diamond and titanium, all of that single minded, focused energy honed to perfection...

Sherlock who was mad and brilliant and who seemed to made of fire that burned bright with rage and passion and beauty, but

in the end, it's all physics.

Even Sherlock. Physics, in the end.

When the body breaks, it bleeds. It bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and it does not stop, no matter how much you will it to. Even when John looked at it staining the pavement, all he could think was _that's his blood, that's Sherlock's blood, my best friend's blood, it's not where it's supposed to be, please God let him live. Please, please, please. Please don't take him away from me. It's too soon. It's too sound, I need to tell him things, I need to—_

His own broken, hoarse voice sobbing _he's my friend, let me through, please he's my friend._

And when he was back home, clothes streaked with another man's blood, he was so tired, so tired. And maybe that was the secret of it; he would go to sleep and it would all be a terrible nightmare. And he would walk into the kitchen and Sherlock would have set fire to something and he would demand that John make him tea and the silence in his head would be gone and everything would be _back to normal._ Because surely this was not real. Surely, Sherlock had drugged his tea with a mind altering substance and it was all just a dream _oh god please let it be a dream._

But it was not a dream. It was so achingly painfully real that the reality of it could tear his skin to shreds. Reality was the empty bed that the bastard never slept in, the unfinished experiments that would remain unfinished, and the armchair near the fire that no one would sit in again because it belonged to _him_ and now he was gone.

John stared and stared, thinking maybe if he concentrated hard enough time would reverse and he'd have him back again.

The numbness turned to anger before grief choked his heart. Yes, first it was fury because _how could he leave him like this._ How could the arrogant clot just _assume_ that John could survive, that John wouldn't fall to pieces without him.

Sometimes John wakes up gasping thinking he'll see Sherlock next to him.

Somehow it's always a surprise when he isn't.

He slept in Sherlock's bed for as long as he could, inhaling his scent and crying, until the smell of shampoo and Sherlock and chemicals was long faded from the sheets. He held that stupid indecently tight purple shirt to his face and breathed and breathed, because it was all he had left, it was the only thing that remained of him, and John didn't know how long he could go on like this

Sherlock jumped off a bloody building; he might as well have taken John with him.

 **OoO**

 _It wasn't until we were well past the_

 _Middle of it_

 _That we realised_

 _The old dull pain, whose stretched_

 _Wrists and clammy fingers,_

 _Far from_

 _Being subverted_

 _Has only slipped underneath us,_

 _Freshly scrubbed._

 ** _OoO_**

 _John,_

 _I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts. It hurts like a physical thing, perhaps even more than a gun shot wound. Now I know what a gun shot wound feels like, so I can say that with some authority. Don't worry though, I'm fine. I think. I hope._

 _But that's not the point._

 _The point is that I miss you._

 _And I wish I could tell you this in person, I wish that I could send you this letter and you could see it and realise that I do care for you, that you are the single most important thing to me, and I did this all for you, and I just hope that you understand that. I don't need you to forgive me, because I don't deserve that much. But I want you to understand._

 _Sherlock_

* * *

There was a lot of shouting. A great deal of shouting. The first few weeks comprised entirely of John suddenly becoming so angry that he kicked everything he could find.

And one evening, when John was too exhausted to cry anymore, a picture slid out of a book. It wasn't a particularly good picture, but that wasn't important. He had no idea who had taken it. It couldn't have been Sherlock, because Sherlock was in the picture, but he was betting his money on Greg. In the picture, John was looking up at something, a confused expression on his face, seemingly oblivious of what was happening around him. Sherlock was behind him, looking straight at him, eyes narrowed like he was deducing John, lips pursed. It was an odd expression on Sherlock's face, like he couldn't quite figure something out. John closed his eyes and he could remember that feeling, that odd, swooping sensation in his gut when Sherlock looked at him like that; all that brilliant, maddening, clever, _attention_ focused on _him._ Plain, old, ordinary John Watson. Sherlock looked at him like he was fascinating.

 _Mirrors and shop windows_

 _Returned our faces to us_

 _Replete with tight lips and the_

 _Eyes that remained eyes..._

John looked at it for a few seconds before the precarious well of his emotions cracked. He stuffed the picture back inside the book and threw it to the other side of the room where it fell to the floor with a dull thud. And then John marched into the kitchen and grabbed a plate and flung it in a random direction, watching it splinter on impact and the tinkling sound of china as the pieces littered the floor. And more followed, cups and plates and bowls and utensils, John threw and threw.

"John? _John!"_ Ms. Hudson's voice wafted through the door and she threw it open. John was barely aware of her shocked gasp at the carnage John was creating. John didn't care. Ms. Hudson stomped up to him and grabbed his arm and with a great deal of strength for a very small woman, and pushed it down.

"Stop it," she said firmly. "Stop it."

John's arm fell weakly by his side and he screwed his eyes shut. He didn't want to stop. He wanted to break things. John's knees buckled and he slid to the floor and Ms. Hudson kneeled beside him, turning his palm up and looking at the weeping scratches.

"You're hurt," she said softly. "Oh, John."

"Good," he grunted, his voice raspy with disuse. It felt like the first word he had uttered in years.

Ms. Hudson didn't say anything. She managed to find a broom from somewhere and swept around John, the hush of the bristles the only sound for the next twenty minutes. When the kitchen was relatively clean, she left again for a few minutes and returned with anti septic and cotton and cleaned John's hands.

"John, it won't bring him back," she said quietly.

John sighed deeply, tears threatening to choke him again. "I know."

... _and not the doorway we had hoped for._

* * *

 _John,_

 _I think about you a great deal. The majority of my day is spent thinking about you. Usually it's small things, like whether you've had your morning tea or what jumper your wearing today. Don't wear the oatmeal coloured one, it's hideous; though I'm aware it's your favourite. Your taste in jumpers is terrible. Never stop wearing them._

 _It's extremely cold here, which would explain why the letters are crooked; my fingers are shaking. I hope that doesn't bother you. The roof is leaking as well, though I can't complain. I have a roof over my head after weeks. I have a great deal to be thankful for. What I'm most thankful for is that you're alive. You're alive, and safe, and moderately happy, I assume. Which is more than I can ask for. I want to come home. Very much. I am trying desperately hard to come home._

 _I would come home and Baker Street would be the same and you'd be sitting in your arm chair reading a book but you're not really reading, I can't believe you think I actually fell for that. How on earth could John Watson just sit and read a book? If you were me you'd realise how funny it is._

 _I want that so much, I can see it if I close my eyes, I want it all back so much I can practically taste it. I feel like I didn't spend enough time telling you how important you are to me, and that is a terrible thing, because I don't know if you know, and if I don't come back John you need to know! You need to know that nothing on this planet is more important to me than you, and you'd kill for me, I know- but I want you to know that I would kill for you too, in fact I would die for you, as long as it kept you safe. I can't believe you don't know that. Do you know that? Oh god I wish I could tell you John. I can't think straight right now because now I've worked myself into a frenzy because what if I don't come back and you'll never know how important you are to me? John you are the most important thing to me. Ever. More than The Work. I would choose you over The Work. Every single time. I would cry out of boredom but you would keep me sane._

 _I've taken some deep breaths. I'm calmer now._

 _You wouldn't believe how stupid people are here. They're intolerable. Even more than London. But, to be fair, anyone who isn't you is intolerable. Your absence is like a physical thing. I can feel it, and it is entirely undesirable and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. Least of all to myself. I have realised that living without you is extremely difficult. I had assumed it wouldn't easy, but I didn't know how much it would hurt._

 _More than bullet. A thousand times more than a bullet._

 _Sherlock_

* * *

The nightmares, John thinks, will be the death of him. And not just any nightmares, the same horror, over and over again. Sherlock falls, and he breaks, and there is so much blood everywhere. And John is just standing there, like before, his voice gone and his knees week and panic threatening to overwhelm him.

What tears him apart, however, is remembering how he just stood there, unable to say anything that would make him stop, step back from the edge. What's funny is that that was the moment he realised he loved him, that when he realised that he couldn't live without him; that for a second the only thought rushing through his head was: _He can't do this. He can't leave me like this. I can't do this without him._ He was in love with him, and he wouldn't be able to live without him. And he didn't tell him. _He didn't tell him._

He had been so lonely. So alone. And Sherlock had swept into his life, with his dazzling brightness and crystal madness and John had suddenly realised, in a moment of revelation, how dark his life had been before that very moment. And ever since then everything had been adrenaline and breathless gasps and laughter so hard it made his sides hurt but he had felt so _alive._ And now John had a heart that was beating and lungs that worked but all he could think was _what for?_

And now he was gone, and John looked at the gun in his bedside drawer and wondered what it would taste like in his mouth. One last mystery solved. One last question to answer.

 _Look at me, Sherlock. Happy now? Is this what you wanted? Come back, you son of a bitch. Come back._

 ** _OoO_**

 _His wounds healed, the skin a bit_

 _Thicker than before,_

 _Scars like train tracks on his_

 _Arms and on his body underneath his_

 _Shirt_

 ** _OoO_**

One of those mornings he had woken up and walked into the sitting room and Mycroft had been sitting there, neatly suited as ever, put together and perfect and with an expression of polite interest on his face that John wanted to tear off. John wanted to run at him and punch him on his smug face.

Instead he gave a short bitter laugh at the sight of him and said, "Whatever you're going to say, hold it. I can't have this conversation without some tea."

Mycroft looked a bit alarmed. "Alright," he said.

John made two cups of tea and brought them into the sitting room. Mycroft was sitting in his chair. Which was fine, because he didn't think he could bear to see someone else sitting in Sherlock's chair. So he passed him his tea and sat down on it himself, feeling his heart ache a little bit because it was rapidly losing the shape Sherlock had forced it into; it was becoming a regular, _normal,_ chair, and the imprint of Sherlock on it was fading.

"So, why are you here?" John asked. His voice sounded scratchy to his own ears.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and sipped the scalding liquid. John had a sudden vindictive thought along the lines of _I hope it burns his tongue._

"You seem...well," he finished off delicately.

And John burst out laughing. It was a horrible, hysterical kind of laugh that sounded quite deranged. John didn't care. The complete _ridiculousness_ of that statement made him want to laugh and laugh. But because it had been a very long time since he had _actually laughed,_ it didn't sound like on at all. It sounded rather frightening.

"Well?" he spluttered. "Oh yeah, I'm peachy."

"I didn't mean—"

"I don't care what you meant," he snapped suddenly. John felt exhausted again. He felt tired all the time these days, and now he understood why Sherlock hated dealing with people so much. It was so _tiring._ John didn't feel like talking anymore, he didn't feel like doing anything. Because talking would inevitably lead to _talking about Sherlock,_ and he wasn't ready for that. He doubted he ever would be. What he wanted to do was slip under the covers and sleep until he was dead.

"You haven't left the flat in two weeks," Mycroft pointed out mildly.

"I don't have any reason to," John countered. "Are you quite finished?"

"I hear you're planning to move out," Mycroft ignored him and continued drinking his tea.

"Of course I'm bloody well moving out," John spat. "How the hell am I supposed to live here?" He wanted to say the _real_ reason he needed to leave, that he could hear violins sounding in the middle of the night, or a deep voice saying something excitedly in the next room, or a sudden exclamation of " _John!"_ That it was so _hard_ going into the kitchen, now that it had been cleared of experiments, that John could barely sleep at night because the silence was driving him mad.

"I can't afford the rent by myself anymore."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft said. "Ms. Hudson would never let me hear the end of it if you left. The rent is hardly a problem. And besides, Sherlock would not want you to leave the flat. Baker Street without John Watson? He would hate it. "

John screwed his eyes shut. "Yeah well, Sherlock's fucking dead."

 **OoO**

 _Try_

 _Explaining a life bundled with_

 _Episodes of this—_

 _Swallowing mud, swallowing_

 _Glass, the smell of blood_

 _On the first four knuckles._

 ** _OoO_**

 _Dear John,_

 _It has been eight months, two weeks, four days and nineteen hours since I last saw you. It feels like a decade. It feels like forever._

 _The letters are crooked again. It's hard to get them straight. People do think up ingenious ways of torture here. But not really ingenious. If you know what I mean. Textbook, really._

 _I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. I miss you terribly. I miss you so much that it hurts, and I've said this so many times before but that's because of how accurate it is. I sleep so rarely now, even less than before, and when I do I just hope I dream of you because that's the only way I can see you. What a terrible thing it is to think you're here and then to have to wake up._

 _To wake up and look at an empty room and to think that a moment ago I was in Baker Street and you were complaining about something as usual, but then I wake up and I realise I'm more than a thousand miles away from you and I have no idea when I will see you again and oh god John it hurts so much._

 _I had to pretend to be dead and go halfway around the world to realise I was in love with you, John Watson, and you know what? That hurts even more._

 _I knew you were something dazzling. I knew that from the moment I saw you. I knew that you were tired and lonely and you needed someone absolutely mad to fix you again and I did, I fixed you. I was able to make you happy and I was able to make you laugh and nothing on earth can compare to that feeling._

 _I knew you were dangerous. That I had never, ever met someone like you before and I had a feeling, no I knew, that you were going to turn everything upside down and I was going to fall so hard. I knew, from the moment I saw you, that something beautiful and precious and brilliant and mad had walked into my life, and how was I going to live without you now? I had to have you in my life. I had to, I had to, I had to. I couldn't let you leave, never, ever. And then Moriarty ruined everything and I had to leave to keep you safe and I knew that leaving you would be difficult. I underestimated just how much. You were the best idea I ever had. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and nothing like you will ever happen to me again. Nothing could ever, ever, replace you._

 _I didn't realise I was going to fall in love with you. I knew I needed you. I knew that you were perfect for me. But I didn't know just how much I was going to fall. And I did, and I didn't realise the whole time I was falling, and now here I am with a broken foot and cigarette burns, writing in ditch that stinks of dead rats and this is when I realise that I love you, and that makes it all a little easier and a great deal more difficult._

 _I want to be the best thing that ever happened to you. I want you to look at me and stop breathing, like how I feel when I look at you. I want you to adore me just like I adore you. And that is selfish, because I'm really not. I want you to be absolutely mad about me, just like I'm absolutely mad about you, but that is unfair because I cannot ask for things I cannot have. So I'm going to be a good man and be content that you are safe and happy, even if I'm not the one that makes you happy._

 _My experiments are failing. I didn't know love could hurt this much._

 _I am a mess. I feel like a mess. Everything about me is a mess. And the thing was, I was a mess before I met you and I didn't even know. Do you realise how absolutely ridiculous that is? And then you came and I thought to myself, I am a complete mess, and I think this man can clean me up. And you did, John, you did, and now I'm so far away from you and I can feel myself falling to pieces again._

 _Yours,_

 _Sherlock_

* * *

One year, John thought, was surely long enough to get over someone. At least, to get over them partially. Enough to not, you know, drink yourself into oblivion because of how horrible everything is. It was just a trip to the pub, that's what Lestrade had said, Lestrade had told him that he needed to get out and return to the land of the living, and it made sense to John at the time. Now he knew it was the most terrible idea he had ever had.

John had come home and fallen into the sofa and passed out and suddenly jerked himself awake when he heard violin music from somewhere.

He blinked rapidly, his eyes feeling like sandpaper and his mouth so dry he didn't think he could even open it. _What time is it?_ He thought blearily, passed the pounding in his head. _Am I dreaming again? Some kind of nightmare? Must be a nightmare, it always is..._ He strained his ears. Yep. Definitely violin music. The sofa creaked under him as he tried to get up, muscles protesting. Why was he still here in this house?

"Who is it?" he rasped. The room was dark, the only light coming through the window, illuminating it only slightly. The violin music grew louder.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

He thought he saw someone move. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the darkness. There was a lamp here-somewhere- he flailed his hand around a bit but his co-ordination seemed a bit off.

"John, you'll hurt yourself."

John almost fell off the sofa.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathed, and Sherlock frowned at him heavily from the armchair.

"Why were you sleeping on the sofa? Your shoulder will get stiff and your back will hurt. Honestly, John, what have you been doing to yourself? You look terrible." Sherlock shook his head in frustration. John stared at him.

"You're supposed to be dead," he said.

That-can't-be-Sherlock gave him a sad, haunting smile. His skin was too pale, his hair too dark, and his eyes weren't the right colour. They were more luminous somehow. But he did _look_ like him.

"Yes," he replied.

John nodded, wondering how far gone he really was. "Are you a ghost?" he asked, disgusted at the sound of hopefulness in his voice. But he couldn't help it. If this was a ghost, it meant Sherlock was still _here,_ and, well, he would still be able to feel his presence, and Sherlock wouldn't be _gone,_ not quite—

"I'm not a ghost," Not-Sherlock admitted. "I'm a figment of your imagination."

"If you were my imagination I'd imagine you _naked_ , _"_ John muttered, falling back into the sofa ad feeling like he was going to cry again. An adult didn't cry like this. An adult shouldn't be feeling like he was on the verge of tears all the time. But for a moment he had actually thought that Sherlock had come back, even if it _was_ as a ghost, but at least...at least...

"I'm a figment of your imagination, not a _sexual fantasy,_ " Not-A-Ghost-Sherlock said petulantly, sounding deeply offended. John couldn't take it anymore. He was going crazy. He was hallucinating. He needed to get out of this fucking house.

"Go away," he croaked. "Why the fuck are you here? To torment me?" He threw a cushion at him but it flew right through. Sherlock looked back, unimpressed.

"You dreamed me up, I can't just _go,_ " he pointed out maddeningly.

"Just _go,"_ he shouted suddenly, gesturing in the general direction of the door. "I can't fucking look at you anymore, you lunatic, do you have any idea how much it _hurts?"_

"You need to really _want_ me to go," Sherlock told him desperately. "Come on, John."

"I fucking _prayed_ to you, I told you to stop being dead, and you just-you just— _how could you do this to me_?" John couldn't breathe anymore, he couldn't, the sobs threatened to choke him. His hands flew to his hair, and he felt like he was going a bit mad. "How do I do this," he said, frustrated. "How am I supposed to be in love with someone who's dead?" John covered his face with his hands and tried to stop the sobs from coming out of his throat.

When he opened his eyes Sherlock was gone.

 _ **OoO**_

 _We pull our boots on with_

 _Both hands_

 _But we can't punch ourselves awake_

 _And all I can do_

 _Is stand on the curb and_

 _Say sorry_

 _About the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine_

 ** _OoO_**

 _Dear John,_

 _It may be possible that I miscalculated. It is highly likely that I loved you from the moment I saw you. I hope you never see these letters, it would be awful. I know exactly what you would say. I would hate to see you horrified or shocked and if I came back, if, and you didn't want me then, you might move out and I can't have that. But I don't know if I will come back so maybe I should have told you? Would that have been a better thing to do? I don't know. I'm confused. I can't understand anything and I want you and I need you so desperately. How did I live before you came into my life? Maybe I didn't. It feels like everything was black and white, monochrome, horribly boring and then suddenly there's so much colour. Therefore I can divide my life into two categories: Pre John and Post John. Pre John was horrible. I would have died of boredom had you not come into my life. I would have died of loneliness. I might have set myself on fire out of boredom and consequently died._

 _What are you doing now? Do you miss me? Do you think of me? It's selfish of me to want you to miss me, but I won't be sorry for what I did, I'll never be sorry for doing what I did because it's kept you safe and that's what important. Keeping you safe is my life's goal. I didn't have a goal before you, and now I do, and that goal is keeping you safe. Have I made myself clear? I won't apologise._

 _I'm so tired. I feel exhausted. I want to sleep but it's too dangerous to sleep right now because I might not wake up. I broke my left wrist and it hurts a great deal. The doctor was an idiot. Or, to be precise, (because I'm always precise, you know that) the doctor wasn't you._

 _I miss you so much._

 _I miss you, John, I miss you so much. I miss your jumpers and you making me tea and shouting at me when maggots infiltrate the butter and I miss how you smile at me when I say something clever. It's been so long since someone told me I was clever. The last time I said something clever (fourteen hours ago) I got two broken fingers in return. On my left hand, though, so I can still write but it's difficult. (It's the same man who broke my wrist, but at least he didn't do anything much to my right hand so I suppose I'm lucky) But I miss you, oh god John I miss you I miss you._

 _Sometimes I think that when I'll see you again I'm going to kiss you. I'm going to kiss you and kiss you and tell you that I love you desperately, maddeningly, that I've loved you ever since you walked into St Barts with your limp and your military haircut, I loved you when you shot that cabbie, I loved you when I saw you covered in Semtex—I was frightened then, so frightened, all I could think was—I've barely even known him, I just met him, I didn't realise I wanted him so much until now, fate cannot be so cruel as to take him away from me now, not now, I need to tell him so many things,—I thought you were adorable when you were jealous of the woman (don't deny it, you absolutely were)—but the point I'm trying to make is that I loved you every single moment I knew you, and maybe even before that, I just didn't know. Maybe I was waiting for you my whole life and I didn't even know it. That sounds dangerously close to soul mates and the entire idea of it is ludicrous, but sometimes, sometimes- I don't mind it quite so much, not when it's obvious that if I had a soul mate it would have to be you. Mycroft would laugh at me but that's because he's an idiot._

 _I love you. I wish I could tell you. Maybe if I told you before, maybe, just maybe, if I was very, very, very lucky, you might have even loved me back. And I could have spent that time with you- I think of all that time I just wasted, letting you go on all those horrible dates with those vapid women who didn't know a thing about you—maybe if I had told you, you would have stayed home. Maybe if I had just kissed you, maybe, maybe, maybe_

 _You are the most perfect human being on the planet._

 _I miss you so much. I love you. I just want to come home to you._

 _Yours,_

 _Sherlock_

 ** _OoO_**

 _I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but_

 _I wore his jacket for the longest time._

 ** _OoO_**


	2. those dreams of ours

_Part II_

 _He was not dead yet, not exactly-_

 _Parts of him were dead already, certainly other parts were still only waiting_

 _For something to happen, something grand—_

There's a hole in the roof, and it's leaking all over Sherlock's face.

The water is cold and icy and if he had any concern at all for his health he'd move out of the way. But he lays there and let's that cold, icy water drip, drip, drip, cling to his eyelashes and slid down his chin until it feels like he's crying. He's not even sure if he is. Rainwater mixes with salty tears and Sherlock turns over and shivers and shivers.

There's ink on his hands. Papers strewn over the floor. It's cheap ink, stolen and a sort of bluish purple and it takes a long time to dry because it's mainly water. But it gets the words right enough and

 _John I keep thinking about you and it hurts_

And

 _I think I might be dying_

And

 _It's not really possible for a heart to break but_

Outside it continues to rain.

Sherlock looks at the paper in his hand and wonders when everything will stop hurting. The syringe rolls from his palm and he burns and burns.

 ** _OoO_**

 _But it isn't always about me,_

 _He keeps saying, though he's talking about the only heart he knows—_

 _Boys on the bed, strange sheets_

 ** _OoO_**

He doesn't relish killing people.

At least not until after they're dead, and he's holding the gun in his hands and there is _satisfaction_ and _peace_ and it feels like he's done something useful after a long, long time.

There is blood on his hands and he's used to blood, he's experimented on blood and he's had more wounds than he could count, but not like this, it's never been quite like this...

...it feels good.

John would have been disgusted, but John is far away and John doesn't have to know that Sherlock doesn't mind feeling numb, because once he starts _feeling_ again his heart is going to tear open and he might never stop screaming. He doesn't remember becoming this person, this person who can't really feel anything anymore.

 **OoO**

 _The way the phone rings in the other room,_

 _Like that, the way it has of ringing, ringing._

 ** _oOo_**

The man behind him is gripping his hips so hard it hurts, Sherlock can feel bruises forming, blue and purple and red painted across the canopy of his skin. It doesn't really matter. It feels good. It feels like he's being split in two but it's good because it scatters the thoughts in his mind, if only for a few moments. The man behind him bites into his neck while he fucks him and Sherlock groans, low and deep and closes his eyes and imagines John. John doesn't have to know, doesn't have to know about the filthy, pornographic fantasies where he squirms and writhes underneath him and John _takes_ and _takes_ and Sherlock gives him everything, god, _everything._

Sherlock gasps when he comes, fingernails creating furrows in the wall, lips red and rough from biting them.

Later, the man is leaning against the wall next to Sherlock and is lighting his cigarette for him and he asks, "Who's John?" in Russian.

Sherlock's fingers freeze where they're holding the fag loosely, and he lifts his eyes to stare at him. "Who?" he asks.

The pale yellow light of the swinging bulb above them creates dancing shadows on Vlad's face. "You kept saying his name," he replied, eyes narrowing.

Sherlock stares at the cracks in the floor, the torn soles of his boots, wonders whether to lie or not say anything at all. He's stupid, so stupid, he doesn't want cretin like Vlad to be uttering John's name, to know anything about him at _all,_ because John is precious and beautiful, and Sherlock wants to keep every piece of him close and curled up next to his heart. Shooting Vlad briefly crosses his mind, but he needs him now, and he won't get very far before the rest of the network finds him and kill him too.

"No one," he says instead, and exhales smoke.

Vlad nods and starts using his knife to clean his fingernails, and they're silent once more, and Sherlock feels like he's choking.

An hour later Vlad is dead and his blood is on Sherlock's shirt and three more people are dead under his hands, and he forgets about John for a moment. He revels in it. Revels in this feeling of being less than human, he doesn't have to be Sherlock now, all he is is a man with a gun and nothing to lose.

Even when he's tied to a wall and someone is ramming their fists repeatedly into his gut, or drawing a knife down his back or burying cigarette stubs in his skin, he thinks _It doesn't matter, you can't really break what's already broken._

It gets worse and worse and Sherlock's body is just a sack of bones that he's carrying around and his head is full of snarls and screams and nightmares and he carries the smell of gunpowder everywhere he goes and in his ear

 _Do you remember what sleep is_

 _Which bone should I break now_

and

 _why isn't he making any noise_

 _must be dead_

He's alive, at least. He thinks. He can't really tell, and the thing is, he doesn't care anymore.

Sometimes he does stupid, suicidal things and he almost dies and he wants to kill himself again because it's all quite confusing.

 _Inside his head a little music, inside his head a little hum. What he remembers_

 _Doesn't make any sense._

He wants to die but then

 _John_

And if he dies he can't go back to him-

-but John won't want him back then- probably not because Sherlock _lies_ and _lies_ and _lies_ and John won't care that it was all to save him, to make sure that he keeps breathing because he is the most important thing in the entire universe and he needs to be protected and persevered and how is John ever going to understand that?

 _I'm such an awful person and I've done such awful things and you make me feel good and deserving because you are kind and wonderful and I want you with a slow ache that consumes me whole and I_

Everything hurts.

Sherlock stumbles inside and he barely manages to close the door because he's bleeding out, all over the floor, knees hitting the floor hard- and it should be painful but there's agony bursting across his abdomen so he supposes he'd better concentrate on that instead but—

 _Oh fucking god pain pain morphine where's the fucking morphine?_

He keeps a hand against his middle in a rudimentary method of keeping all that blood that's hitting the floor inside him, but it's really not that easy he needs _bandages_ and _iodine_ and _morphine_ and he needs a _doctor_ or else he's pretty sure he's going to die of blood loss.

 _What he remembers has nothing to do with us_

 _Or does it?_

Everything is fuzzy and Sherlock decides to curl up on the floor because

John is going to be fine without him and

He really doesn't mind this

Maybe someone will post the letters and

John will _know_

Because it's of paramount importance that he should _know_ that Sherlock loves him so much he can't breathe from the feeling of it, and it doesn't matter that he might not kiss him and

 _All this circling around inside the darkened rooms inside_

 _Those dreams of ours that never get used._

* * *

He wakes up feeling crusty and ill with a sour taste in his mouth and the devil of a headache.

There's a slow, steady _beep beep beep_ somewhere, the only sound breaking the stillness. Sherlock opens his eyes and groans at the sunlight that seems to have a personal vendetta against him. He wonders if his head is going to crack open any time soon, it definitely feels like it.

"Oh, lovely, you're awake," someone says, and Sherlock groans again.

"What—why—" he manages to croak, opening one eye and trying to glare at his corpulent brother. "Go away," he finishes, and tries to sit up but there's heavy bandaging around his middle which restricts his movement. There's an IV attached to his hand and there's a blood bag above him, and the bed is stiff and lumpy. "Morphine," he rasps.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows and puts down the paper he's reading. "Hmm. Yes, let's talk about that, shall we? I have your blood test right here," Mycroft is dressed casually in a light blue shirt and cargo pants and he looks less imposing and intimidating. His fingers tap impatiently on the arm of the wooden chair he's sitting on, and he looks expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock ignores him, choosing to look, instead, at the room he is in: small, neat, sunshine-yellow walls and an open window. Still in South America then. Explains Mycroft's attire.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock mutters, voice hoarse with sleep and disuse. He hasn't seen Mycroft in ages, the last time was six month ago when he needed help with a particularly tenacious assassin who refused to die. Mycroft looks paler and thinner (but Sherlock isn't going to _tell_ him that), which is probably the only sign that he is not as well-put-together as he is trying to look.

"It's been long enough," Mycroft says, sighing. "Time for you to come home."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, letting the word wrap around him.

 _Home with John and tea and jumpers and 221B and long nights in front of the fireplace and bullet riddled wallpaper and blue eyes and the steady, loyal presence of compact army doctor and the smell of danger and blood and home and formaldehyde and course blonde/brown/grey hair and—_

He screws his eyes shut and grits his teeth and exhales loudly through his nose.

"I can't," he says, and tries not to tremble.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says gently, and it's been so long since Mycroft has used that tone of voice. It reminds Sherlock of skinned knees and broken bones and that little tree house in the backyard with the dead squirrel and warm chocolate milk. "You've done enough."

"No, you don't _understand_ ," Sherlock says, and his voice is just short of hysterical. "I haven't eradicated the whole thing, I _know,_ there are people left and it's not _safe_ yet—"

" _Sherlock,_ " Mycroft says more forcefully, and this time he sounds more worried. "We can handle the rest of this competently, you've done the important—"

The clinical white sheets curl in his fingers and Sherlock finds it's getting a bit harder to breathe. "I—I don't think—Mycroft you don't understand, I can't go home, how can I go home like this—"

"Sherlock," he simply says, an edge of worry to his voice that wasn't there a second before and Sherlock nearly loses it. "Sherlock, _breathe,_ " Mycroft tells him, and what an easy, _convenient_ thing that would be, to just _do what he is told to do but he cannot breathe right now._

"Myc—I—" his body is trembling, and fuck, not now, not _here—_

Mycroft grabs his shoulders harder and turns him around forcefully so he can look at him, face pale and eyes wide. "Sherlock, listen to me. Breathe. Deep breaths. Look at me. _Look at me."_

Sherlock looks at him but his body is still shaking and he can hear high pitched laughter in his ears, the hiss of a cigarette as its pressed into his skin, the _drip drip drip_ of his own blood hitting the floor—gunshots—

"I am having a panic attack," he says, his voice surprisingly stable, nothing compared to the chaos inside of his head. He tries to let go of the sheets so he can hold onto Mycroft because he's warm and real and _right there_ but he seems to be stuck.

"Yes," Mycroft agrees calmly, "Nothing to be worried about. Just breathe. Look at me, and take deep breaths. That's all you have to do. Don't think of anything else. Concentrate on me. That's it. Yes."

After about thirty seconds the trembling subsides and his heart rate is almost regular and he is aware of the sweat trickling down his neck and the grip Mycroft has on his shoulders.

"Oh stop coddling me," he snaps, and shrugs them off. Mycroft says nothing, simply raises an eyebrow and puts his hand in his lap.

"I can't go home right now," Sherlock says after a while, quietly.

"You _can_ and you _will,"_ Mycroft says, firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder, warm, grounding. Sherlock finds that he is still shaking. "Sherlock, you're a mess. You're of no help to us like this, look at yourself."

"I am _perfectly capable—_ " Sherlock says, and his voice cracks.

"I know," Mycroft says, and the fingers on his shoulder tighten. "But don't you want to go home?"

 _Home with John and tea and jumpers and Ms Hudson and warmth and safety and comfort_

Sherlock says nothing and stares down at his lap.

"He's a mess too, you know," Mycroft says softly. "I've never—he punched me the last time I went to see him."

Sherlock cracks a smile at that. "Did it bleed?" he asks.

"Profusely," Mycroft agrees, and Sherlock giggles.

"Is he..." Sherlock searches for a word. "...unhappy?"

"He is..." Mycroft shrugs. "You'll have to see for yourself."

Sherlock doesn't like the way he says it, it makes him worry. Certainly, _certainly_ John cannot be as much of a mess as he is, of course not, John doesn't love Sherlock, not like _that,_ obviously not this slow, burning want that makes him feel like his skin is stretched too tight over his body and makes his fingers shake and his lungs forget how to breathe.

"What's going on?" he asks.

Mycroft doesn't answer.

 _He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There's a niche in his chest_

 _Where a heart would fit perfectly_

 _And he thinks if he could just manoeuvre one into place-_

 _Well then, game over._

Sherlock had wanted to impress John Watson on the very first day they meet. He knew John wouldn't stay if he was boring. John was an army doctor and he smelled like danger and sand and blood and oh _god,_ this small army doctor was a positive beacon of light in Sherlock's dark, dark life and he could feel his heart falling from his chest and right at John Watson's feet.

John had shot a serial killer for him _on the very first day they met_ and Sherlock wanted to take him home and worship him. Sherlock felt _alive_ and it had nothing to do with drugs. John was funny and clever and exciting, so exciting. Sherlock wanted to keep him like he had never wanted to keep anyone before.

 _John, please stay. Please stay, I'm not boring and I know you're desperately unhappy and I can fix that for you, I can. Just come and live with me and I'll make you laugh and I'll give you something to live for I promise._

He took John out for dinner and he had to ransack his brain for interesting things to tell him, to keep him interested and to make him smile in that _particular way of his._ He didn't do small talk. He had no idea what people did on...was this a date? No absolutely not. John was...well, he didn't like him _like that_ and that was perfectly fine with Sherlock because neither was he, he just wanted this man in his life and if that meant telling him that embarrassing story about the squirrel who stole the apple pie, then so be it.

Later on Sherlock took him home and he really wanted to kiss him, he wanted to push him against the wall of the foyer and taste the wine on his lips or even get down on his knees, but that would certainly scare him away so instead they went upstairs and John made tea and they sat in front of the fire, and Sherlock continued telling him about crime and cases and he told him the embarrassing story about the squirrel again, because John found it funny and he laughed when he told it.

"Where did you get this skull from, anyway?" he asked, holding up the mentioned object in his hand and turning it over, looking at it suspiciously. He was a bit tipsy from all that wine, Sherlock observed and he found it _adorable._

"Nicked it," Sherlock answers, taking the skull from him. His fingers brush John's. "But everyone assumes there's some fascinating story behind it, don't tell them." That elicited a surprised chuckle from John, and Sherlock noticed the faint pink in his cheeks.

"You're a real piece of work," he said, and then yawned enormously. "Right then. I'm off. Are you going to...sleep?" He trailed off on the last word like he was afraid Sherlock was going to do something much worse than sleep at night. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I don't sleep much," he answered, then shrugged. "Don't need it."

John raised his eyebrows. "Of course you need to sleep. Everyone needs to sleep." He frowned. "What do you do if you don't sleep?"

"There are a variety of activities far more exciting than _sleeping,_ " Sherlock answered, and then walked back to his armchair to pick up his violin and bow. "For example."

"Oh, are you going to play, then?" John asked, suddenly perking up. "Can I...listen?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "What?" he asked, feeling his neck heat up under his collar.

John looked confused. "I mean...if you're going to play now, I'd, well, I'd like to listen? If that's alright with you?"

"I—I—I don't—" Sherlock started to stammer. He was being ridiculous. Why was he being ridiculous? _Here's an opportunity to impress him, don't stand and babble like an idiot._ "Yes. Yes, of course. Is there anything in particular you'd like to hear?" He tuned the instrument, trying to ignore the heat flaming into his cheeks. He was being _polite,_ and polite was boring, but he was feeling awkward and Sherlock always became polite when he was feeling awkward.

John laughed. "I'm not much into classical music, mate, just play what you play best and I'm sure I'll like it."

So Sherlock played him Bach and he refused to think he did that because he was feeling romantic and hopeful, no, definitely not. He didn't know how long he played but the fire burnt low and John fell asleep in his chair.

Sherlock spent ages debating what to do, staring at John's sleeping form and thinking _there's going to be a crink in his neck_ and _that can't be good for his shoulder_ and _he looks very handsome_ but he finally decided not to wake him because he wanted to look at him for a bit longer so he got a blanket and draped it over his shoulders.

The next morning John didn't ask him about the blanket but he made him tea as soon as he woke up and asked him if he minded if he cooked them some breakfast. _"How do you like your eggs?_ " he had asked.

Sherlock thought, _I'll play a gazillion more concertos for you, you know, just so you could fall asleep to the sound of the music and I could listen to the sound of you breathing after that._

 _You wonder what he's thinking when he shivers like that_

 _What could you tell me, what could you possibly_

 _Tell me? Sure, it's good to feel things, and if it hurts, we're doing it_

 _To ourselves, or so the saying goes, but there should be_

 _A different music here._

"Who is she?" he asked, holding the photograph with fingers that were shaking ever so slightly. He held it tighter to stop them from shaking, his voice firm and smooth.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, leaning back against the desk and crossing his arms over his shoulder. "I don't know," he answered.

Sherlock laughs bitterly. "You always know."

"Relationships..." he grimaced. "Not my thing."

"Relationship?" Sherlock concentrated on a patch of wall above Mycroft's head. "Is that what they're in?" He straightened his perfectly straight collar to give his shaking fingers something to do.

"I assume you're going to...drop in," Mycroft finished off delicately. "You can ask him yourself."

"There's the slightest possible chance I won't be wanted, though," Sherlock says in reply. The woman in the picture is pretty; blonde and demure and female and disgustingly _normal._ Sherlock feels vaguely ill and he crushes the urge to run to the washroom and vomit until there's nothing left in his stomach.

They're holding hands and John is holding a cup of coffee in one hand and he looks older, paler, care-worn. He looks _sad._ He's smiling in the picture, though, smiling at Mary and Sherlock decides _jealousy_ is too petty a word to articulate what he is feeling now; this all consuming, burning urge to rip the photograph in two and fourths and eighths until the evidence that John Watson doesn't care anymore for him is in bits and pieces at his feet. _He smiles at me like that,_ he thinks. _That-that smile—that should be for me. Not for you. You scarcely know him at all. Not like I do._

"It's been two years," Mycroft sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. "He's moved on, Sherlock. Surely you don't begrudge him for that. What did you expect him to do? Sit on that chair in 221B and wait for your dead body to rise up out of the ground?"

Sherlock imagines leaning over and closing his hands over Mycroft's neck and squeezing. He screws his eyes shut and lets out a frustrated breath, the photograph twisting in his grip. "I don't expect you to understand," he spits, and then turns around and stomps out of his office, pulling his coat tighter around him as if that will prevent the icy cold spreading in his bones.

Sherlock steps outside and tries to fold all that horrible, sickening, sentimental _feeling_ and stuff it into a chest inside his head, padlocking it and then grinding the key to dust.

 _He'll want you back,_ he reminds himself. _Just not like_ that, _and it's not like you ever expected it anyway._

No, he agrees, staring at the darkening sky and wondering whether it was a good idea to come back after all.

 _There should be just one safe place_

 _In the world. I mean_

 _This world. People get hurt here. People fall down and stay_

 _Down and I don't like_

 _The way the song goes._

Sherlock smokes a whole pack of cigarettes while he's waiting for the perfect moment to walk up to John and tell him that he's come back. What would he say?

 _Not dead?_

Sounds a bit of an understatement, really, but boiled down to the absolute truth. John would appreciate the logic of it, he thinks. The cigarette trembles in his hands. With a sigh of frustration he drops it and crushes it underneath his foot, choosing to lean against the lamp post and glare at the perfect suburban little house John is living in right now with that hateful woman with the curvy figure and the blonde hair and those laughing blue eyes—

 _Stop._

He can't though, not really, he imagines John with her at this moment, laughing at something she said, pushing her hair back from her face and leaning in and pressing his mouth against hers—

They're fucking, surely. Fiercely heterosexual John would obviously not pass up on this opportunity. Sherlock clenches his fists so hard they form red crescents against his palms and he wants to scream and tear his hair out because he hates _feeling_ so much it's so _inconvenient_ and why is he so _jealous_ because he had already accepted long ago that John was never going to want him _that_ so why was he even bloody _trying—_

He decides so many times to go back, he can't do this, can't. _Knowing_ that John has moved on is painful enough when seen through flimsy pictures but the proof of it is solid and real before his very eyes and this is more than _pain._ This is something he can't explain in words. This is something that makes him want to return and hide in Siberia again, letting someone beat him to a pulp, because he never expected to live long anyway, and surely that would hurt less than _this._

He goes, though, thinking of mummy and what she would say if she knew what he was doing right now. _You have to be brave, dear. When you find something you want to keep, you must try very hard to keep it._ Granted, at the time she had said it they were talking about a disembodied cat paw he had dissected himself that Mycroft was threatening to take away, but the analogy held fast.

It feels almost silly to go upstairs to their flat and stand in front of that freshly painted white door and knock on the door. It feels ridiculous. Sherlock almost runs away but then a short, blonde haired, curvy woman opens the door and he stares at her instead.

"Hello," she says, trying to look polite as she squints her eyes in an attempt to recognise him. She doesn't, not immediately. He's glad for it.

"Hello," he replies. "Can I come in? Is John home?"

She opens and closes her mouth several times, before saying, "Um, yeah, but who are you?" He has to like her. He _has_ to. John likes her and she likes John and by extension they should all like each other, even if it is for the soul purpose of John's happiness. So he exhales and tries to be very calm and says, "John knows me, it's imperative that I meet him right now. I'm not a serial killer or a thief, Ms. Morstan, could you please let me in?"

She seems surprised that he knows her name, but she opens the door wider for him anyway.  
"Well, alright," she acquiescences, and Sherlock steps inside their flat.

 _Flowers._ There are _flowers._ In a _vase._ Paintings on the wall. Everything is light and bright, feminine, Mary's presence palpable everywhere and Sherlock can't imagine how John isn't desperately unhappy within these four walls.

He feels very silly indeed, standing in the middle of their sitting room with Mary asking him if he'd like some _tea_ as if he's some sort of _guest_ and Sherlock can't imagine why on earth John would marry this woman. He's about to tell her that the only tea he enjoys is tea that has been made by John when he hears a very distinct voice call out, "Mary, who is it? Need me to come?" and everything inside of Sherlock twists uncomfortably.

"Um, yes, I suppose, there's someone who wants to—I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" she busies herself in the kitchen somewhere, the sound of running water and clang of pots and pans filling the room, even though Sherlock remembers that he hadn't told her that he wanted tea. He doesn't answer her question, instead tries to control his rapid heart rate and—

He hears footsteps and turns around from the horrid painting he was looking and, comes face to face with John who is staring at him with a very peculiar expression on his face.

Sherlock can't help but stare back at him, because how did he not realise how _beautiful_ John Watson was? He had forgotten the exact colour of his eyes, he thinks, because 'blue' was definitely not what it was. His hair was almost grey now, his face more lined, tired, but still so inexplicably _John_ that Sherlock is unable to breathe for a few moments.

John is still staring at him. Sherlock starts to open his mouth when John raises a hand to silence him. "I'm—I'm dreaming again, aren't I?" he whispers, half to himself. "Fuck, I thought this was over," he scrapes a hand over his face.

"John, have you met—" she steps into the room, tray in her hands, tea and _biscuits._ What on earth is John's life now? She looks rapidly from Sherlock to John, who seems to be having some sort of a nervous breakdown right there in the living room.

"John, what's going—"

John looks up at her and gapes. "Tea. Who's the tea for? I didn't ask for—"

"For him," she juts her chin towards Sherlock. "Really, you're being rude—"

"Him?" John's voice shakes as he turns towards Sherlock. "You—you can see him too?"

Mary looks confused. "Of course I can—" then the expression morphs into something akin to horror. "Oh my god." The tray falls. _Smash._ China and tea and crumbled biscuits everywhere. Mary's perfectly manicured fingernails fly to her mouth. John turns to him rapidly and everything is a blur for the next five seconds and then John's fingers are curled tightly into his collar and he slams him hard against the nearest wall and Sherlock gasps from impact, the sudden movement probably ripping open the stitches in his back.

"You fucking _bastard,_ " John seethes.

"John—" Sherlock starts, but that's all he can say before there is hard, blinding force against his cheekbone as knuckles meet skin and Sherlock goes stumbling over the nearest little coffee table, knocking a lamp over.

"John!" Mary shouts, running over to him. Sherlock can't see what's happening because he's on his knees on the floor, faintly aware of flaring pain against his back and across his chest and a bit of blood welling up in a cut on his lip.

"You— _you,_ " John is spluttering, and Sherlock looks up then, to say _sorry,_ something, _anything_ to prevent John from hitting him again, even though it is perhaps what he deserved. John is breathing hard, hair falling into his eyes from his exertion, Mary attempting valiantly to hold him back from Sherlock. "How could you— _two fucking years, Sherlock!"_

"John, I—" the attempt to stand up to have this inevitable conversation is too much, so he settles for kneeling on the maroon carpet and looking up at John. "I admit jumping on you like this is a bit rude—"

John starts laughing. Hysterically.

"Bit rude. Bit _rude,_ he says," he looks at Mary as if he expects her to laugh along with him, but Mary looks extremely frightened at the moment. She holds on tighter to John as if she thinks he's going to fly at Sherlock again.

"John, why don't we—" she starts to say, but John wrenches away from her and then pulls Sherlock up with a, "Oh get off the fucking floor," and there isn't a trace of fondness or amusement in his tone, it's an alien, strange thing, his voice right now. Cold and hard and nothing like what john would usually sound like when he spoke to Sherlock.

"John, listen—"

"I am _done_ listening to you," he roars, picking the vase off the floor and hurling it at the wall. More broken china. The sound makes Mary gasp but Sherlock just swallows and stares at the carnage around them, not able to look up at John's face because it hurts too much. "Two years. _Two years._ " He brings his voice to a harsh whisper on the last two words. "I—do you have _any fucking idea_ what those two years were like, for me?" He pokes his finger, hard, against Sherlock's chest to emphasize his point.

"I—"

" _No you fucking don't!"_ he yells. "I was a mess, a mess, you fucking _arsehole,_ I—I—" he turns away from him then, hands flying to his hair, shoulders shaking. "Get him out of here," he tells Mary. "Get him _out._ "

Mary looks at Sherlock, wide eyed, lips pursed. Sherlock has no idea what to do. This is not how he thought it would go. He never expected John to welcome him with open arms, but he supposed—he supposed—well, he supposed John would be _happy_ to see him—

"John, please—"

John marches away from the sitting room as if he can't bear to hear another word from Sherlock and then the sudden noise of a door closing shut reverberates throughout the entire room. The sound of it vibrates inside Sherlock's skull, and he finally gives in to the urge to lean against the door and take a few deep breaths.

"Well," Mary says after a beat. "That went well."

Sherlock shifts his gaze to look at her. Mary looks back at him and sighs. "So you're Sherlock," she says.

Sherlock looks at her as if she's gone mad.

"Right, stupid question," she runs a hand through her blonde hair. "I'm sorry about how that went," she says quietly. "But you—you haven't seen him. He looks okay now, but," she shakes her head. "I'm not surprised at all." She looks down at the brown tea that is now seeping into the carpet.

Almost a minute passes before Sherlock says anything. "I should leave. I apologise for—well." He shrugs.

Mary cracks a lopsided smile and sidesteps the tea and china to open the door for him. "I'll speak to him."

He wipes away some of the blood collecting under his nose. "You will?" he stares at her questioningly.

Cold air is blowing into the flat from the open door. She leans against the frame, crossing her arms. "For a long time," she starts, looking down at her feet. "I thought that he...well. The way he was. When you were gone. I've seen friends grieve for friends, but John...not quite like that." She reaches into the pocket of her jeans and extracts a handkerchief, handing it to Sherlock. He takes it, using it for mopping away the blood. "He'll speak to you, again. Eventually. Just give him some time."

"Thank you," he tells her, the words odd and unused in his mouth. "For taking care of him."

He leaves then, unable to take her pity and her sympathy and the disgustingly kind look in her eyes. He hates that she's being _nice_ to him and _implying_ things that never had any potential. He hates that John and her are a team now, hates that he told _her_ to get rid of him as if he can't do that task himself. He steps out into the cold, brisk hair, breathing in the scent of rain and mud and earth, staring at the sky for the longest time, before turning his steps towards Baker Street, contemplating a cold, empty, John-less flat. He will be alone again now, he thinks. John and Mary, domestic bliss, living together in their lovely little home, fucking and working together, Sunday dinners, picnics, walks in Regent Park. Sherlock will eventually fade into the background, a washed out, faded adventure story that John will think of once in a while, before he turns to Mary and smiles at her and then forgets all about him.

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to come back, after all.

 _You, the moon. You, the road. You, the little flowers_

 _By the side of the road. You keep singing along to that song_

 _I hate. Stop singing._


End file.
